


Apologies

by JP (jpgr1963)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/JP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conflicted!Bitchy!Paul and Regretful!Prick!John in Hamburg in the summer of 61. Ah, young leather lad love!  This extra, multi-part chapter of <b><i>The Contract</i></b> picks up the story immediately after Hamburg events in Chapter 11 of the original story. </p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, I have no idea what really happened, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Hamburg, June 1961**

 

 

Standing slightly off-balance on the dark Top Ten stage, Paul opened his heavy, sore, blood-shot eyes and pulled back from the warmth of leaning his aching skull against John’s forehead.  Shit, he was exhausted; even his toes were cramping in his boots from the long night of booze and pills and jealousy. And Lennon being a fucking cunt at Jürgen’s queer bash.

Selfish bastard.

“Ya reckon Geo and Pete are asleep by now?”  It was barely more than a whisper.

“It’s half four in the morning or something, Paul. Yeah, s’ppose they’re back at the room, luv. Doesn’t matter. We’ll get rid of ‘em.”  John’s voice was weak and tired from remorse.

Why the fuck had he done that to Stu? To Paul, for fuck’s sake?

Pushing away, shaking his head and chuckling sarcastically, Paul walked across the stage and away from his best mate to retrieve his acoustic guitar that was balanced securely against the wooden crate by the back wall.  The floorboards creaked under his weight.

“No need to kick ‘em out.  Listen, it’s been a wreck of a night, John.  I’m completely fuckin’ knackered.”  Paul mumbled through wobbly lips under his breath, in a half-hearted, cold tone; his anger over Lennon’s prickish antics still smoldered like stubborn embers in his gut. Holding his guitar in his right hand, Paul turned around slowly.

“Let’s ‘ead up to the shithole.” 

His expression was frozen. His droopy, drugged eyes were as dead as dry ice. Paul had shut down—self-preservation and all that.

Swallowing a lump in his raw, dry throat, John noticed.

Payback.

That’s how it had worked between the two of them since the beginning.  Tit for tat. There would always be days when Yin Lennon and McYang could be fucking self-centered, petty twats.  And it was half four in the bloody morning on the Reeperbahn.

And John had violently kissed and then punched Sutcliffe in the face just a few hours ago. 

And it was Paul’s nineteenth birthday and he was still furious with his thoughtless bastard of a lover.  

And they hadn’t really eaten anything resembling a meal for over two days now. Not since Astrid’s mum had served up some tasty Kraut meat slop.  With twisted noodle shit things.

“Listen, I bloody said I was sorry. Yer bein’ a fuckin’ nancy boy about this, son.”

“Fuck off, John.”  Paul spat and tried to push past John, who was standing close to the edge of the dilapidated wooden stage; before he could shove past, the older, stronger lad grabbed Paul tight by the bicep… before McCartney had a chance to escape.

“I told ya what ‘appended!” 

John was still a tad pissed. 

And fucking tired and irritated by the Maccasterics. All he’d done was put arrogant Sutcliffe in his place.  John had kicked Stu’s artsy arse out of the band, for Christ’s sake.  Wasn’t that what Paul fucking wanted, had been pestering and needling him about for months now?

Paul tore his arm out of John’s grip more easily than he’d expected and pulled away sharply, his lips pinched and his eyes stinging from a nasty mixture of jealousy and outrage. He couldn’t control it; he’d lost control hours ago.

“I’m leavin’!”

But before Paul could turn around and march off the stage, John wrapped his left arm around Paul’s chest from behind, running his fingers underneath McCartney’s leather jacket, pulling him hard and close.  With warm breath, he growled over the lad’s shoulder into Paul’s left ear.

“Don’t fuckin’ do this, Paul.  It’s yer birthday, luv.  I went on a bit of a bender and I cocked it up.  I’m sorry, alright?”

Paul didn’t say a word; he just pulled way and slowly turned back to face John, his dark eyes pissy and on fire.  John raised his tone a level sharper and a taste nastier.

“Stu’s outta the band. That’s what ya fuckin’ wanted, right? We’ve shit to do now—change up the set list, figure out who’s plays bass sort of rubbish. We’ve work, Paul. C’mon, drop it, will ya?”  John moved his mouth closer to Paul’s cheek.

“I’m ‘eaded back to the room, now.”  Paul snarled with curled lips, not intimidated and bitchy defiant. Mouth full, cheeks flushed, eyes burning.  It was Maccasexy as all hell.  Shit, John loved the feisty, beautiful lad.  Fucker.

“Christ, just kiss me.”  John grabbed the beautiful boy by the collar of his black shirt and pushed Paul some two yards backwards and up against the back stage wall, leading with his mouth on the corner Paul’s lips.  His legs trembling beneath him from pent up lust, Paul fought back, resisted as long as he could. He was furious with John and in no mood to forgive him… not yet.

And then John’s mouth was clamped over his, demanding and unyielding.  Paul choked when John brutally shoved his snaking tongue in his mouth hard, taking and not giving. The acoustic fell from Paul’s hand, clanging on the hard wooden stage floor.

“Get… the fuck… off me!”  Between desperate breaths, trying to take in air, Paul cried out; his fists smashed violently against John’s shoulders and lower back, as hard as all the strength had had in him. 

John pulled out and back, his eyes wet with shame.  He ran his lips gently up Paul’s neck, frantic for forgiveness.

“Lemme love ya, Paul. S’yer birthday, baby.”

More blows to John’s back, pounding harshly against the soft, vulnerable flesh at his kidneys.

“Get off me, ya bastard!” John would be bruised no doubt; Paul was much stronger now, more a fully-grown man than six months ago.  After a few more stabbing hits, John winced with squinted eyes at the pain, before finally breaking his love death grip. 

“Ya gonna smash  _me_  in the face now? Kick me outta yer band? C’mon, John… fuckin’ do it!”  Paul was panting erratically, his voice quivering from rage and a tinge of fear, though he’d have never admitted to be scared.

John suddenly stopped.  He couldn’t breathe and his head was spinning.  He pushed off and turned away, broken from disgust and surrender.

“Fuckin’ leave, then. Sod off.”

With drops of sweat trickling down his brow, Paul picked up his still-humming guitar and raced out of the club, clicking his boot heels into the predawn hours of bleakness on the Reeperbahn.  He was gone.

And John was left. 

Left by himself downstairs, alone.

He sank to his knees and then lay down on his back on the hard stage; with a groan, John crossed his legs at the ankles and draped a thick forearm over his eyes.  He took a deep, raspy breath before finally allowing a couple of tears to spill out of the corners of his eyes and roll down his cheeks.  He’d fucked it up, again. 

He was running out of fuck ups.

~~~

Paul quietly pushed open the door to their shared shit kip room; immediately he was hit by the raspy, steady hums of dead-to-the-world snores.  Two distinctly different rumbles filling the pitch-black hovel of a space. 

He slowly tiptoed between the beds and felt his way over to his bunk, lowering the guitar to the floor quietly.  He pushed off his jacket, crossed his arms behind his back and pulled the T-shirt up and over his head, shaking his mess of greased locks back into place.  As he undid his belt buckle and pushed his zipper down, he let his tired eyes fall shut; his thumbs traced the contours of his hardening prick through the cotton fabric as he pushed his leather trousers down the narrow curves of his hips and over his thighs.  Paul was one of those ever randy, pretty lads that could turn himself on with a private striptease for no one.

“Oi!  Who’s there?”

“Just me, George.  Go back to sleep.”

“Y’alright, Paul? Ya sound strange.”

“M’fine. Long fuckin’ night, mate. Knackered as ‘ell.”

“John ‘ere?”  George rolled on his side and peered over the edge of his top bunk.  His burly nest of chocolate hair was sticking out in all directions.

“No.  Off bird hunting, I reckon.”

“Lennon was a right cunt tonight.”  George’s spat out the words with bitterness, as he rolled over on his back and stared at the stained ceiling.  He’d watched the whole scene at Jürgen’s unfold with his own eyes; he’d witnessed first hand Paul being eviscerated by John’s bastard actions. 

“That he was.”

“Ya sure everything’s alright?  You and him are alright?”

“S’fine.  Trust me, ‘okay? Hasn’t chucked me outta the band. Not yet, anyroad.”

“Well, get some sleep, Paul. Another long bloody day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Paul?”

“Yeah, mate?”  Paul sighed with exasperation.  He just wanted a quick, rough toss and a couple of hours of kip.

“M’not playing bass. Not fuckin’ ever, Paul. Ya now that, right?”

“Night, Geo.”

Paul collapsed onto his shitty mattress on the lower bunk and pulled off his skin-tight leather, one furry leg at a time, barely noticing the rustling of Pete dozing above him.  Without a sound, McCartney slipped his body between the rough sheets and slid his left hand down his shorts. Fucking sweet release was what he needed.  Gently and softly at first, he glided his loose fist up and down his velvety length, back and forth, until he couldn’t take his own teasing any longer.

“John.”  He whispered, but he was sure that no one had heard him.

He thought back to the party just hours ago.  How hungry he’d been for John's body, John's perfect mouth.  Shit, Paul had spotted that small room behind the bar first. He’d planned on getting his lover in there somehow, have him suck Paul off in the secretive, noisy darkness, in not so plain sight.

After licking his left palm until it was shiny with slippery wetness, he gripped his shaft tighter and started to pump, hard and fast, until he felt the tingle in his toes and the tightening of his gut.

 _“Yes, baby…that’s it. Shit, yes. Fuck, don’t stop.”_   He screamed silently, arching his back, as he felt the rush build and swell up inside him.

_“Oh God, Johnny... yes!”_

With jerking, upward thrusts of his hips, Paul rode the rhythm of his hand, fucking himself hard… without mercy.  Finally, he exploded into his quaking palm; warm, thick lad batter leaked out between two of his fingers.

Fuck, he needed that.

Shit.

After wiping his slimed, sticky hand on the edge of the nasty sheet, Paul cupped his squishy ball sack gently and turned towards the papered wall, trying in vain to rest his aching mind. Soon though, he simply curled up into a ball and sobbed softly into his pillow.  He needed that release as well.  
  


_"Fuck you, Lennon._

What a lousy shit of a nineteenth birthday it was turning out to be.

 

~~~~~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Hamburg, June 1961**

 

The drab sun had been up for a couple of hours now and Hamburg was rubbing her eyes awake to face the obligations of another dreary summer day.

Clenched fists shoved deep in his jacket pockets, John’s tired brown eyes were cast down, a couple of rouge, limp curls dangling over his forehead. He watched as the pointed tip of his boot turned to the right and then to the left, scraping over the rough surface of the stone step, back and forth, as if to ground out an imaginary spent smoke.  He noticed how his boots were filthy dark and grotty dull with Reeperbahn grime; Mimi would have raised quite a disapproving eyebrow. Finally, John lifted his heavy, blood-shot eyes to look again at the formidable entrance to Astrid’s home.

He had knocked hard, twice, but still no answer.  After running his fingers one more time through his exhausted, greased maple locks, he knocked again, harder and louder, and then lit a smoke, arms hugging his torso with nerves, edgy glances back and forth, up and down the street. Some fucking sad display of Lennon bravado, but he was there trying to apologize, for shit’s sake. That counted for bloody something, didn’t it?

_“Fuckin’ sod it.”_   John spun to leave, tossing his barely smoked cigarette out to the curb.

Without warning, the front door flew open, and revealed a disheveled and fitfully furious Astrid glaring down at him. Stu’s nose was probably broken; they’d know for sure later when a neighbor doctor friend stopped by the house to have a look at the damage. Draped in an oversized T-shirt and black stockings, her blonde hair was poking out in contradicting directions and her beautiful eyes were nearly swollen shut from angry distress. A string of garbled German profanities erupted from her twisted mouth, covering John in umlaut syrup.

After she exhausted her supply of Kraut curses, Astrid turned her head to the side and inhaled deeply, collecting herself enough to growl in coherent English.

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to him, Astrid.”

“He is resting now.” She sighed with a hint of resignation, her usually bright, brown eyes glassy wet from unstoppable tears. She remembered Stu’s anguished swears as she and her mother practically carried him upstairs to the spare room—Stu’s pain and his sadness and his confusion.  

“You have made enough problems. Stuart does not want to see you. Just go away, John.”

Shit, how badly hurt was Stu? 

Choked up from guilt, he defiantly marched up the two outside steps and pushed past her small frame, determined but not unnecessarily rough. Lennon did like her after all; no need to be a callous twat about it.

“I’m talkin’ with Stuart, darlin’… now.”  The mumbled, firm words hit her ears, as John gracefully bolted half a flight of stairs, catapulting his body up and forward off the solid stairwell banister, headed to her lover’s temporary lodgings on the next floor.  

Stu was her lover, not his.  Never his.

John blinked a few times before pushing open the unlocked door.  The guest bedroom was stale and uncomfortably balmy; whiffs of smoke and drink and lad sweat stunk the air.

“Stu?”

No sound. Not even the ruffling of bed covers.  It was dark; John carefully padded over to the lone window and drew back the curtains, lifting the window sash for some fresh air.  Still nothing.

“Stu?”

John walked quietly over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing the door to the room.  After he peeled off his leather jacket, letting it drop softly to the wooden floor, he twisted his torso back around to look at his battered mate. 

Shit.

Stu’s nose was clearly badly broken; nasty bluish-black bruises darkened the angled hollows under the older lad’s closed eyes.  John reached down with his right hand and gently pushed a damp clump of hair out of Stu’s face, letting his shaking fingers run along the smooth curve of his friend’s moist forehead.

“Stu, luv… I’m so bloody sorry.” 

Still no sound.  John turned away, rubbed his eyes and reached down, grabbing his jacket as he lifted his aching body off the bed to leave. Nothing more he could do for now, he reckoned. He froze at the doorway when he heard a murmur from the slumbering lump.

Stu reached up to touch his nose, wincing in sharp pain the moment his fingertip made contact with his face.

“Fuck.”

“Hush, now. Yer neb is broken, mate.” 

“John?”  Stu slowly opened his dark eyes, turning his head gingerly towards the sound of John’s voice.  “Shit, where am I?”

“Astrid’s, of course.  She’s a plucky nursemaid, that girl.”

 “What the fuck ‘appened?” 

“I smashed ya in the face, Stu.  At Jürgen’s Exis party. Remember?”

“Not much.  Bits and pieces mostly. Why d’ya punch me?”

“Cause I was a right pissed cunt. The usual, luv.”

“Ah, bladdered Jock the cock.” 

Stu chuckled, and then grimaced with pain.

“In the flesh, darlin’.  Oi, ya quit me band, Stuart.  Ya remember that part?”

Stu carefully pushed himself up on his elbows, wriggling to try and sit up.  John moved over to the bed and wrapped an arm around his mate’s narrow shoulders, helping him find a comfortable position. Fixing the lumpy pillow for support behind Stu’s back, John whispered.  “Budge up, luv.”  Stu shimmied over so that his mate could crawl onto the mattress and lie next to him.

“I quit the band then, did I?  Fuckin’ brilliant.  I’m a bloody rubbish bass player, ya know. McCartney was right. Shit, the bastard must being creaming in his trousers, the wet-nosed prick.”

“Not for long. Pretty boy will be stuck playin’ the fuckin’ bass now.  Fuck ‘im. S’ides, he’s furious with me. Probably ‘eaded back to the Pool right now to tell dear ol’ dad that he was spot on about that prick Lennon.”

“Well, y’are a right prick.  S’why I love ya, Johnny.”  Stu winked, wincing again at the stabbing jolt that ripped through his mashed face.

“Should ‘ave been you and me, luv.”

“Yeah.  Shame that I’m not queer.”

“We could ’ave worked on that, Stu. Ya would ‘ave come round.”  John laughed softly, and then fell into a brief coughing fit 

“Ya give a fuckin’ great blowjob, luv. I will admit that. Still not enough to make me change me skirt bangin’ ways, John. And, c’mon—ya fancy pretty boy McCartney too much, anyroad.  Ya would ‘ave cheated on me with the little pansy whore. Ya would ‘ave broken me poor heart, eventually.”  Stu feigned a dramatic frown, clamping his hand over his heart.

John smiled, reached over and kissed Stu affectionately on the temple.

“I’m sorry that I punched ya, Stu. And that yer leavin’ the band.”

“I know. S’all for the best, right?”

“S’ppose, but I’ll miss ya.  You and Astrid will ‘ave front row seats at every Beatles’ show… promise.”  John grabbed Stu’s hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing hard.

“I’ll hold ya to that, Lennon.  We’ll be starvin’ artists after all, without a pence to spare.”

“I love ya, Stu—in a best mate, wish ya were queer, sort of way.”

“Love you as well, John. Now go fuckin’ tell McCartney how ya really feel, right?”

“Hmm... s’ppose I should. If the gorgeous twit ever forgives me, that is.”

“So, um, why is our dear nappie-clad McPrick so angry with ya?”

“I snogged ya before I punch ya. In front of everyone, includin’ Paul.”

“Yer such a fuckin’ shit, Lennon.”

John lifted Stu’s delicate hand and kissed his artsy knuckles softly.

“I know.  S’why ya love me, Sutcliffe. 

Stu pulled his hand away from John’s soft lips and traced his thumb gently over John’s cheek, cupping John’s face, seeing the water of tears well up in the handsome prick’s sorrowful eyes.

“Everything’s gonna turn out just grand, John.  Trust me, eh?” 

“Listen, Stu. Even though ya’ll be here in Hamburg more, don’t leave me. Come back home when ya can, right. I can’t lose you.”

“Shit, John, I’ll never leave ya. Promise.”   Stu leaned in carefully and lightly kissed the tip of John’s perfectly not broken nose.  “Now get out of ‘ere and let me rest. And go make nice with yer twat of a boyfriend.”

 

~~~~~

 

On his stomach with his face resting sideways on the shit pillow, Paul slowly opened one eye.  Everything ached; even though he must have been out for a couple hours at least, his body was still tortured from a night of drink and emotions and too little deep sleep. Their shared room was dark, but eerily quiet.  No snoring, no sounds at all. He looked over at John’s kip and saw that the bed coverings hadn’t been touched. Fuck, his mates were up and gone.

 John never came back to the room.

 Paul was alone. 

 On his fucking birthday.

 “Oi, yer awake then!  Though ya might ‘ave died on us there, Paul. Happy birthday, mate!”

 George strode into the room, all boney arms and long legs flailing about, wearing only his tight Y-fronts, toothbrush dangling out of his mouth, his nest of burly hair barely combed.

 Paul groaned from the bottom bunk and rolled over on his back, running a hand through his own shiny mess of dark locks.

 “Mornin’, Geo. Ta for the wishes.  Shit, I feel like lorry kill.”

 “It’s past two, Paul.”

 “What? Bloody ‘ell!”

 “Hungry then?  I’m fuckin’ famished, mate.  C’mon, get up.  I’ll buy ya a birthday sarnie.  Mum sent a bit of money, so let’s go get something to eat.”

 “Where are the others?”  George swallowed a bit of minty toothpaste and coughed.  He knew what Paul was asking.

 “Pete’s downstairs, chattin’ up some local skirt.”

 “And John?”

 Shit, George sighed silently.  Ya shouldn’t be fucking him, Paul.  Don’t much care that ya turned out queer, McCartney—but John’s gonna break your heart, mate. Already has, hasn’t he?

 “Dunno.  Haven’t seen the pissed cunt since that wreck of a poof party.”

 “So he never came back last night.”  Paul lamented softly under his breath to no one.  He rubbed his big, droopy eyes and sat up on the edge of the bed, covers hiding his naked bum.

 “Doesn’t seem so.  Get dressed, alright?  I’m starvin’ ‘ere, birthday boy.”

 Paul looked up at his mate of a little brother, streaks of anguish distorting McCartney’s beautiful, tired features.  And then without warning, he shook himself out of it.  Paul had a talent for that.

 “Ha! All right then.  I could use a bit of real food. Ta, Geo.”

 Relieved, George beamed a toothy, satisfied grin and pulled on his tight jeans; he reached down and then threw Paul’s leathers at him, hitting his mate so that the trousers rested atop Paul’s head. Within minutes the two teens were strolling down a street in the Reeperbahn, bumping shoulders like wee lads slagging off school, and laughing at Harrison’s daft puns about pigmies and strippers with small tits.

 

~~~~~

  

“All right, Pete.”

 “All right, John.  Long night then?”

 “S’Hamburg, luv. Always a long fuckin’ night.  Where are Georgie Porgy and Baby Mac?”

 “Took off together an hour or so ago.  Celebratin’ McCartney’s birthday or some shit.”

 “Where’d they go?”

 “Dunno. Didn’t ask.”

 Fucking useless prat. 

 John pulled out a chair and sat down at the table where Pete was nursing a pint and chain smoking.

 “I could use one of those meself.”

 “Bar’s right over there, son.”

 Fucking smug bastard.  Lennon was really beginning to hate their wad of a talentless drummer.

 “Pints ‘ere taste like stale donkey piss.  Let’s get outta the Reeperbahn and find a real bloody pub or something. One with some fit talent. I need some fuckin’ snatch to go with me drink.”

 That got randy Pete’s attention.  John knew it would… predictable bore of a whore. Shit, they needed to sack robotic slut boy.

 In less than an hour, the unlikely companions had found a decent bar, packed with late lunchtime regulars and Nazi dockworkers.  They stood at the bar and surveyed the noisy scene. Nice assortment of skirts, John quickly noticed.  Especially that appetizing strawberry blonde bird giggling at a table, flirting coyly with Lennon, batting her long black eyelashes and twisting her curls with her fingers.

 “Now there’s some tasty talent.”  John growled low before sipping off the foam head of his fresh pint.

 “Bet she’s got a fella.  Too pretty to be available, Johnny boy.”

 Fucking cock blocker Best, at it again.

 “Too fit for yer fucking ugly arsed gob, son.  I’m ‘aving a pull. She’s bloody beggin’ me.”

 Pete snickered and lit another smoke as John grabbed his pint and threaded his way through the crowd toward her table.  Before he could reach her, the blonde skirt got up and walked towards the back door of the pub, winking at him to follow her out into the alley.

 Had John been a bit more sober, a tad less annoyed with absent Paul, he would have recognized the signs.  Seen the fucking writing on the grimy wall.

 She had a fella all right.  A big, burly scum of a boyfriend.  A brass-knuckle wielding predator.

 Lurking behind some stacked, wooden crates in the dim alley.

 Looking to lift some marks off a horny foreign boy foolishly enchanted by his accomplice cunt of a girlfriend.

 It was a set up. Easy money, really.

 The blonde thing pulled John into a tight, sensuous embrace as soon as he exited the pub; her red lips quickly glued themselves to his hungry mouth as she dragged his willing, aching package up against a nearby brick wall.  His warm hand quickly made its way up under he skirt, tugging down on her knickers.  Shit, he needed this release.

 Then John heard it, despite her sloppy, distracting moans.

 The distinct violent crack of knuckles.

 Fuck.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Hamburg, June 1961**

 

 

With a sharp jolt of his head, Paul abruptly snapped out of his reverie and looked over at his childhood friend sitting across the small room from him.  As he watched the wiry, independent lad from Speke fiddle and fuss with his acoustic, Paul’s eyes brimmed with brotherly affection. Shit, George had actually bought him a sandwich, and even managed to scrounge up a birthday pastry from the waitress, with pink candle stuck in the middle of the gooey fruit filling and all.

 Paul sighed, reflecting back on all their years of carefree companionship—before he knew the intoxicating taste of Lennon’s lad batter. Hitchhiking to nowhere and skiving off school and practicing til their fingers blistered. The simple shit. Fuck, George always seemed to be there for him, back home in Liverpool and here in Hamburg, no matter what the matter… a boney but strong shoulder to lean on, especially when ol’ Jock cocked things up, yet another time. 

 “Yeah, all right.  I think I’ve got it now, Geo.  Um, what’s that fifth chord then?” 

 “What’s wrong with ya, Paul? Ya know this tune. Ya’ve played it before, for Christ’s sake. S’not  _that_  fuckin’ difficult, mate.” 

 As the two boys sat across from each other on the lower bunks, drenched in a cloud of cigarette smoke, knees nearly touching, guitars cradled in their laps, Harrison’s annoyance with his moody, distant mate was bubbling to a boil in the pit of his bottomless gut.  George’s young, dark eyes stared with a mixture of worry and frustration from beneath his floppy quiff of brown curls; Paul was completely bloody distracted, not paying any mind to the spontaneous practice session they’d begun about half an hour ago. George finally exhaled with a grumpy gruff and demonstrated the riff one more time as Paul’s heavy eyes veered away to stare off at the wall behind Harrison’s spot on John’s bunk, his mind wandering off once again.

 “Got it?”

 “Huh?”

 Before Paul could answer that he hadn’t, the partially opened door to their shared room slammed wide, hitting the wall with a loud thud. Stu barged in without apologies; though his nose was carefully bandaged, the purpling bruises under his eyes were darker and more painfully blatant than earlier, magnified by the thick lenses of his heavy-framed glasses. Standing there in the doorway, with his delicate hands perched on his slender hips, Sutcliffe appeared a ghoulish ghost of his arsty self, growling without a hint of his usual silly poof flourish.

 “Get off the fuckin’ bed, ‘arrison!”

 Both boys froze, their lips parted, stunned with shock at the unexpected apparition of big-balled Stu. Slowly Paul stood up, carefully resting his guitar on his bunk.  He kept his voice low and calm but couldn’t disguise his lethal, catty tone.

 “Don’t fuckin’ talk to George like that. And ya don’t kip ‘ere anymore. Yer outta the band now, Stuey. S’bout fuckin’ time.”

 Paul glanced at George for support; the handsome younger lad just arched a knowing, complicit eyebrow. S’bout fucking time indeed, Stuey.

 Without warning, the slight artist marched up aggressively to face Paul, his eyes only coming up to the level of the cleft in Paul’s chin.  Their stare down lasted but a few seconds, Paul’s large, ink-dark pupils burning holes as he peered down the slope of his perfect nose, when suddenly Pete entered the room with a grunt.

 “Oi, George… clear off John’s bunk, would ya then.”  Pete sounded tired. He’d practically carried John from the pub to Astrid’s house, and from there, into and out of a taxi back to the club. He was a strong bloke but, shit, Lennon was fucking heavy.

 “Let go of me, Best!  I can fuckin’ walk—just need to lie down for a few.”  John pushed himself out of Pete’s grasp and stumbled past Stu on his way to his now empty shit of a bed.  When he noticed Paul, their eyes quickly found each other and locked; confusion and guilt collided into a mess of silent questions and unspoken regrets. 

 And Stu disappeared.

 As far as Paul and John were concerned, everyone in the room disappeared.  

 Especially Stu.

 And, as usual, Stu was immediately aware of his own invisibility.  Shit.  Even if he had been queer, Sutcliffe reckoned that he would only have been John’s latest, temporary distraction of the moment. Stu had known that from the start, despite John’s empty promises. Fuck, John had nothing real to give him, as a best mate or as a lover; his mad musician friend had long ago gifted the best parts of John Winston fucking Lennon to that pompous, cow-eyed McCartney twat.

 John had given his heart away years before he ever met Stuart Sutcliffe, art college twit shit extraordinaire.

 But thank god for John and his rock and roll band, Stu mused.

 Shit, John had brought him to Hamburg, to Astrid.

 That was John’s true gift to Stu. 

 A future. A future with his beloved Astrid.

 “What the fuck ‘appened!” 

 When McCartney’s panicked voice cracked with a girlish chirp on the last word, Paul cleared his throat and nearly vaulted the short distance to John’s bunk.  Groaning with exhaustion, John collapsed down on the bed and stretched out on his back, one thick forearm soon covering his black left eye. Paul noticed that his lover’s hands were bloodied and covered in tape and bandages; random splotches of dried blood stained the front of John’s t-shirt.

 “John, are ya all right?  Shit, yer hands… what ‘appened?”  Paul asked again, quieter and softer, as he sat on the edge of John’s mattress.

 “Pulled the wrong fuckin’ bird, again.” 

 John laughed softly and then lifted his forearm to toss Paul a quick, painful wink, before letting his arm fall gently to rest once more over his eyes.  “Bloody smart thing that I kept me pint glass.  Handy weapon, son… never let go of yer pint. There’s a lesson for ya.”  Paul smiled against his will, his eyes still glued helplessly to John’s covered, bruised face.

 “So are ya gonna be able to play tonight then?” 

 Everyone turned to look at George, who just shrugged with a slight sarcastic smirk. 

 “What? S’just a fuckin’ question!”

 Only John let out a low chuckle.

 “Doesn’t seem so, does it? You and Macca will ‘ave to carry on without me.  How ‘bout I put  _you_  in charge of the band for tonight, Georgie-porgy?  Just for tonight, mind ya.  Shit, me hands are all fucked up.”

 “Has someone looked at them yet? Like a doctor, I mean?”

 “Yeah, at Astrid’s.  Said I’d be fine.  Nothing’s broken, just cut up bad from the glass.”

 Paul leaned down a bit lower, nearly whispering this time.

 “What about yer face?”

 John lifted his arm and opened both brown eyes, though the left was already half swollen shut and discolored.

 “I’ve been smashed in the face before, mother.  I’ll be fine, all right? Quit yer hoverin’ and shove off so I can get some rest.”  John lips turned up at the corners ever so slightly; he appreciated—no, he bloody adored Paul’s excessive, birdish concern for his welfare, though he’d never fucking admit it in front of his other band mates. Or to Paul, for that matter.

 “You’ll be all right then, John? Need anything?”  Stu asked quietly, genuinely.

 “Yeah, a blow job.  You offering yer services, Stuart?” 

 The dark forest of hair on Paul’s forearms bristled.

 “Fuck off, Lennon.  I’m outta ‘ere.  You should see the doctor again, ya know.”

 “Christ, between you and nurse Macca fawnin’ over me person, I don’t need paper to me wipe me filthy arse, do I Stuart?”

 “That’s it. I’m off as well.” George piped up with that low, heavy Scouse accent.  Simultaneously disgusted and strangely amused, Paul started to follow the young guitarist and his artsy, older archrival out of the bunkroom, leaving John to hopefully sleep off some of his cuntishness.

 “Paul… wait.”  John spat out the bark harsher than he’d intended.  As the other lads filtered out through the door, Paul turned back around and cautiously padded over to John’s bed.  John hadn’t moved, his arm still covering his face.  Slowly he lifted it up again and looked McCartney straight in the eyes with every ounce of something close to sincerity that he had left. Lightly, John brushed his bandaged fingers across his lover’s flushed cheek; against his better judgment, Paul closed his eyes at the warmth of John’s gentle touch.

 “I’m sorry, Paul. It’ll never ‘appen again.”

 “Shit, John. So ya’ve said already.”

 “But do you fuckin’ believe me now?  Do ya forgive me?”

 Paul paused for a ridiculously long time, on purpose, of course.  He nibbled coyly on his right thumbnail, more as a tease than mere habit.  Finally he spoke softly.

 “Dunno yet.”

 “Fair ‘nough.”  John smiled a weak smirk and then lowered his forearm back down over his eyes.  “S’ppose I’ll just wait til ya do.  Can’t do much more than that, can I?”

 “We’ll see.  I might think of something more. S’me birthday after all.”  Paul snarled with a slight purr as he got up to leave the room, remembering at the last moment to grab his guitar on the way out. “Get some rest, luv.”

 John just groaned with a grin, thinking what more McCartney might have in mind.

 

~~~~~~

 

It must have been close to midnight when John finally woke up alone in the bunkroom, parched and sore. His hands felt much better though, so he stood up, made the short trip to the loo, emptied his bladder, peeled off the stained bandages, drank some water out of his cut up, cupped hands at a sink and then shuffled back to the room. After changing into a cleaner white T-shirt, turning on the nearest light bulb and settling back down on the bed, he grabbed his specs, pen and notebook. It was quiet and he was alone and sober. Nice change of pace really.  Good time to write and draw and think.

A few lines of words came easily.  He wasn’t sure yet if they were the beginnings of a song or a poem or just plain rubbish.  He read them over and over, until he forgot why he wrote them in the first place. 

Then he turned to a clean page and wrote just one word.

Paul. 

He stared at the letters, turning his head sideways a bit, noticing how the capital “P” looked an awful lot like someone sticking their tongue out between their lips… Paul sticking his moist, talented tongue out between those fucking full, soft lips. 

John’s prick jerked and twitched in his underwear.

Bloody hell.

As Lennon was finishing up a wicked, warped sketch to illustrate his randy Paul-sucking-him-off musings, he heard Paul and Harrison laughing somewhere down the hallway.  Then it was silent again, as Paul slowly opened the door to their shared room.

“Hey, yer awake. How ya feelin’?”  Paul walked over to his own lower bunk and, with his back to John, stripped off his leather jacket, the inner lining drenched with sweat. He turned around, his eyes zeroing in on John’s hands. 

No bloodied bandages?  Lennon was fucking able to write?

“Better, ta. How was the show?”

“Short.  We started playing the same shit over and over again, until he told us to fucking stop and quit for the night.  Knew it was me birthday, I reckon.”

“Fancies ya, that one.”   

Paul snorted, shaking his soaked head, and leaned over to see what John was writing.  A few drops of Paul drippings splattered over John’s arms and hands.

“Oi! Sod off! S’private, mate.”  John quipped with a spastic face, and quickly shut the notebook before Paul could make out the raunchy little lad blowjob doodle.

“Thought ya were too bashed up to use yer hands there, Johnny.  Too injured to play, right?”

“Got better. S’ides, I needed a night off. A brief respite from the Reeperbahn storm, son. Even the ship captain needs a holiday every so often.”

“Yer a lying tosser!”  Paul lifted his left arm and sniffed the air under his armpit, squishing his nose up at the lad stench. “Well, I’m off to wash up.  I fuckin’ stink.”

Paul grabbed a scratchy, thin towel from the pile of crap at the foot of his bed and sauntered off to the loo, where George was finishing up at one of the white sinks attached to the wall. 

“Warm water?”

“Yes!  For fuckin’ once.”   Standing at the sink, shirtless and barefoot in only his tight jeans, Harrison washed his face one more time, enjoying the soothing, surprising luxury of warm water on his skin.  He looked up into the mirror, mesmerized momentarily by the droplets that stuck to the fine lad fuzz on his unshaven cheeks.  He really didn’t need to shave yet, but he did it anyroad.  John and Paul shaved.

Then Paul moved into the reflection of George’s mirror; he watched as Paul slid off his sweaty black shirt, tossing it on the broken wooden stool; he watched as McCartney pushed his skin-tight trousers and Y-fronts down over his hips, over the black curls that perfectly framed his lad package and then off his lithe, hairy legs, completely McStarkers within mere seconds and just a few feet behind him.  Paul turned on the water in the tiny, mold-infested shower.  Fuck, it was nearly warm enough to be called hot water.

“Pass us the soap, will ya, Geo?”

George turned around and tossed the citrus-smelling orange lump at his naked friend.

“How’s Lennon then?  Still kippin’?”

“Nah, he’s up.  Writin’ shit in his little notebook.  Barmy bugger lied about his hands hurtin’ too much to play.  Wanker!”

Paul stepped in the shower, and pulled the flimsy, yellowed shower curtain closed, though it hardly went even halfway across the opening.  The spray of water washed over his body as he sighed in relaxing pleasure.

Shaking his head at John’s horseshit antics, George watched Paul’s bathing performance behind him in the silvered glass. He couldn’t see everything, just Paul’s naked shoulders and round, wet bum sticking out past the edge of the curtain.

“He’s a right cagey fucker, that Lennon.”

“Bullshittin’ sprog of a bastard!”  Paul shouted with a laugh from underneath the loud, pulsing stream.

“Twat of a traitor!” George bellowed back.

Suddenly the shower curtain pulled back, and Paul stuck his head out, locks of ebony hair matted down on his forehead, dripping water on the floor.

“Cock suckin’ Judas!”

It took a second or two before George doubled over with hysterics, eventually regaining control long enough to hold up his palms and squeal out two words.  “You win!”

“That I do, mate!” Paul pronounced triumphantly, as he popped back under the warm, sudsy waterfall.

“Cor, Paul. Yer hair looks better that way, all flat over yer forehead like that.  Looks modern, like Jürgen’s.”

“Does it?  Might be time for a change soon, huh? Become an honorary Exis nancy boy?”

“Might be, ya fuckin’ poof!”

“Kiss me queer arse, ‘arrison!”

The toothy smile quickly disappeared from George’s face, out of showering Paul’s view.  Should he say something?  Some words to let Paul know that he’d seen him shagging John in that alley? That George knew his childhood mate was, well, sort of queer?  Fuck.   Uncertain about what the hell to do, George grabbed his towel, sweaty clothes and toothbrush and wandered back to the room.

“All right, John.”

“All right, ‘arrison.  Good show then?”

As George finished getting dressed, putting his laundry down by his pile of other useless crap, he spoke without looking at John, still sprawled out on his own bunk below Harrison’s.

“No. Pete’s playin’ was the usual rubbish. And Paul was terrible… kept fuckin’ up chords and cocking up the lyrics.”

“What?  McPerfect fucked up? S’ppose I’m a bad influence, eh?”

“Yeah, ya are.”  George’s tone was dead serious.

“Listen, George. Would ya find somewhere else to be for a bit?  Go bed a bird or something?”

“Why?”  George fucking knew why.

“Cause I’m askin’ polite and all. That’s fuckin’ why.”

Before George could throw back a nasty, curt reply, Paul strolled in the room, wearing only his skimpy, white towel knotted at the waist, water droplets still clinging to his pale skin, his dirty clothes draped over his squeaky-clean arm.

“Cor, I need pints!  Who’s up for a wee birthday bender?”

“I am.”  George interrupted before the question was finished.

“Bloody marvelous idea!  Go buy us pints, ‘arrison. Me and Paul will be down in a few.”

Paul arched an eyebrow at the twinkle burning in the one good eye of his shithead of a boyfriend, curious to see where exactly John was going with this diversion; yet Paul was also annoyed with Lennon’s condescending treatment of George.

He was more curious than annoyed though. 

Something about John’s handsome face looking just a tad smashed up from a back alley barny was fucking sexy as all hell. He’d been thinking about what he’d like to do to that face during the show; not the first time he tried to concentrate on his playing and signing while sporting a rogue stiffy.

“Paul?”  George asked meekly, although he could guess McCartney’s answer.

“Huh? Yeah, um… we’ll be right there, George.  I’ll get the second round, all right?”

“Gear.”  George huffed sarcastically and grabbed his jacket as he made he way out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

“So what’s all this then?”  Paul crossed his arms, a whisper of a lustful smile betraying his attempt to stay angry and serious.

“I never gave ya yer pressie, did I? C’mere, luv.”

John bent over and reached down under his bunk, fishing around blindly for the paper bag he had stashed under his bed nearly a fortnight ago. 

“It’s not wrapped, like I told ya.”

It was absolutely perfect.  Paul was going to bloody love it.  But before John’s battered fingers found the elusive paper sack, he was jerked up forcefully to a seated position by a fistful of his maple curls. The strong left hand tugged harder, bending John’s head back to look up at Paul’s face.

“That can wait, Johnny.”

“So ya’ve figured out what more I can do, I see.”

“Just shut it and suck me off.”

John’s scraped-up hands quickly slipped under the towel and ran up the backs of Paul’s furry thighs; as his fingers kneaded the firm flesh of Paul’s round arse, Paul opened the towel, allowing his hungry nineteen-year old aching throbber out to play.  He closed his eyes and moaned as John nibbled and sucked on the solid muscles and damp crevices of Paul’s hips and thighs, everywhere except where Paul desperately needed John’s wet mouth love. 

Paul pulled John’s taunting mouth off his skin, and pushed two fingers against John’s lips, forcing them apart… slipping inside until his fingers were wiggling down John’s throat up to the knuckles, causing John to gag, his eyes to water.  John whimpered, and Paul knees buckled just for a moment, just like Lennon knew they would at the sound of that submissive kittenish mewl.

“Fuck, yer beautiful, John.  Yer even more beautiful with me prick down yer throat, ya know.”

Paul withdrew his fingers and, without any hesitation, drove his cock into John’s waiting mouth with a single stroke, as deep as he could fucking go, both hands now tangled harshly in John’s knotted nest of curls.

“Ah, yeah… fuck.  There we go… take it all the way down, Johnny.”  John could barely hear Paul’s ferocious growl as he inhaled the sweet scent of freshly washed Macca lad curls, brushing against his eyelids, tickling his nose. As Paul drowned in the sensation and began to lose control, John relaxed every muscle he could and let his birthday boy fuck his face as hard and as roughly as he wanted.

A tasty price for priceless forgiveness.

Suddenly Paul pulled out, a mixture of water and sweat streaming down through the hair over his forehead, dripping on John’s bruised face.

“I need yer arse, now!”  It was an order.

“How do ya want it, luv?”

“Lay back and spread yer thighs, Johnny.  Fuckin’ do it!”  Paul was hysterical with crotch-ripping need as he ripped off his towel and shoved John back, nearly smashing his compliant lover’s head into the wall.

He pulled John’s shorts down and twisted them around his ankles, binding John’s feet together.  With a pull and then a push, John was practically folded in half, his feet tied behind Paul’s neck, his knees nearly touching his own cheeks, his perfect bum spread wide and exposed and vulnerable.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ kiss another bloke.  Ya understand, don’t ya?”

John just nodded, his breathing shallow and labored by his awkward bent position and Paul’s weight on his chest.

“I didn’t ‘ear that.”  Paul grabbed John’s hands, interlaced their fingers and kissed his blue-black eyelid.

“Yes.”  John felt a wince of a sting, as Paul’ lips touched his face.

“Right.  I forgive ya.  Deep breath, baby.”  Slippery only from John’s saliva, Paul impaled him with one, hard, driving thrust, watching with delight every twist of pain and then ecstasy that spread across John’s beaten, beautiful face.  Fucking hell.

John exploded in seconds, with a muffled scream, and then collapsed into mush.

Thrusting over and over, harder and deeper, Paul took his fucking time.  Fucking stamina, huh?

George’s pints and Lennon’s present would wait.

 

~~~~~

 

**18 June 1983, London England**

 

 

The scratchy, chirping noise repeated itself over and over, as the turntable needle reached the end of the album. John ground out his smoke and looked over to his well-shagged partner, fast asleep under the thin bed covers, thick locks of salt and peppered hair peeking out from underneath the blanket.

Slowly he lifted himself off their bed at Cavendish and softly padded over to the table, stark fucking naked and deliciously satisfied.  Carefully John lifted the arm and pulled the old vinyl record off the turntable, letting it gently slip back into its yellowing, torn jacket.

There he was, staring up knowingly at Lennon through those enormous, thick black frames, a slight but kind smirk on his face.

“I used to wear glasses like yours, you know.”  John chuckled at the memory and brushed his fingertips affectionately across the surface of the record jacket photo.  He spoke to the lad’s black and white portrait with a reverent whisper.

“Shit, you’ve been with us for a long time, son—since that gig at the Top Ten. Fuck knows how many times Macca’s packed you up in a crate for another unknown journey to somewhere.  Don’t say a word, Holly, but I think he might fancy you more than me.”

John smiled and carefully inserted the sleeve back into its proper place between the other records on the shelf.  Paul had a rigid, ‘god-forbid-you-screw-it-up’ system for organizing his impressive old vinyl collection.  John didn’t understand it. It made no fucking sense, but the rare German issue of Buddy’s Story was lovingly back where it belonged.

John lay his folded specs down on his side table, turned off the lamp and crawled under the sheets, spooning Paul from behind.  He planted light, butterfly kisses along the smooth contour of his lover’s shoulder and nestled his cock between Paul’s boxer-clad cheeks. Finally John closed his brown eyes and drifted off, drowning in deep, exquisite post-fuck slumber.

Everything was back where it belonged.  

 

THE END 


End file.
